The 7th of London (17 page)

Sev gasped when Kettlebent turned. Instead of an oddly shaped, strange older man, Sev saw a handsome young man about the same age as himself. Kettlebent had black wavy hair combed over to his left ear. His gray eyes were intense, his jaw angular and sculpted. His lips were thin but shapely and pink below a classic nose. Sev could barely believe his eyes. “It’s a disguise Heph made for me. So I could move about the surface freely,” Kettlebent explained, then unbuckled a strange metal contraption from around his neck.

“Does the duke know?” Sev asked, though he wasn’t sure why. Kettlebent shook his head. “My God.”

“Come on,” Kettlebent said, the gravelly, metallic quality of his voice gone. Kettlebent’s real voice was smooth, buttery, and confident. The strange, new young man slipped back into his coat. It was overly large. “Let’s go see Heph. He has the answers I can see you need.”

“Fine,” Sev croaked. “Let’s go.” The new Kettlebent exited the room. Sev couldn’t make his feet move. He was more than confused.

“Are you coming?” Kettlebent asked. Sev nodded and forced his feet to follow.

T
HE
two men traveled to the center of the chamber toward an immense tower, surrounded by a molten moat. The structure ran the entire height of the city like one of the support pillars. “This is Heph’s workshop and home,” Kettlebent explained in the voice Sev still wasn’t used to.

“Did he design those things ye wear?” Sev asked as he craned his neck to look at the length of the tower.

“He calls it an Outer-Skeleton. It utilizes gears and bands of rubber to increase resistance, enhancing the wearer’s strength. It’s like a Steamsuit without steam.”

“It’s amazin’,” Sev stated honestly.

“That’s only a taste of Heph’s genius. He’s incredible.” Kettlebent stopped at the edge of the moat. A small pedestal rose from the street. Kettlebent inserted a key and turned it. Immediately a drawbridge dropped from the side of the tower, allowing the two young men to cross the red-hot liquid metal below.

Inside the tower was dark. Sev could see bits of the disturbing frescoes hidden behind old, moldy tapestries and rugs. Sev could feel Kettlebent watching him. “What?” he asked.

“The carvings,” Kettlebent answered. “They bother you.”

“Nah,” Sev denied, shaking his head.

“It’s understandable. They bother us all. That’s why we try to cover them up.” Kettlebent walked over and lifted one of the tapestries. What he observed beneath made him shudder. “I’ve heard that some of the first people to come here from the surface were driven mad by the sight of them. They tried to destroy them but couldn’t, so we’ve taken to covering them up whenever we can.”

“That’s awful.” Sev’s voice was low.

“It’s gotten much better since the lights have been installed,” Kettlebent offered. “Drives back the darkness. Come along.” Kettlebent crossed to another cage similar to the one that brought them into this bizarre, disturbing place. “Going up.” Kettlebent closed the wrought iron gate and pulled a lever. The lift rattled to life.

As they traveled up through the floors, Sev observed room after room filled with benches, schematics, blueprints, and spare parts. In the middle of the workrooms, they passed through what looked like a kitchen with a potbellied stove and dining table. Above that were more workshops, an armory, and a space filled with chairs of various shapes and sizes. The lift ground to a halt in another workshop. This one looked as though it were part home as well with a small bed, a sofa, and various pieces of furniture. A man sat at an enormous desk on the side of the room behind the lift. A small gas lamp burned on the desk, but the man was cast in shadow from the ragged journal he held in his hand.

Kettlebent cleared his throat. The man lowered the book in his hand slightly and light fell full on his lined face. He was in need of a shave, and the harsh light accentuated the scars that bisected those lines. A particularly harsh scar split the left side of his upper lip and traveled up next to his nose. For all his flaws, the man had a charisma. Sev might have called him handsome at one time, especially when he smiled at his sudden guests. “Well, well,” the man said, his voice gruff but not unpleasant. “Mr. Kettlebent returns. It’s good to see you, Silas.”

“Likewise, Heph.” Kettlebent strode across the room. The man stood with a squeal of pistons and the grinding of gears. He reached out to shake Kettlebent’s hand and then embrace him. That’s when Sev saw the man’s limbs were mechanics, metal strapped and bolted onto the stumps of a forearm and the ball of a shoulder. The white undershirt he wore left nothing to the imagination.

“And this must be the Seventh of London.” The man smiled and walked toward Sev. The same metallic clank accompanied his every step, and Sev could only guess that beneath his suspendered trousers were similar clockwork appendages. Sev wondered what could have happened to this man that would require such extensive prostheses.

“Seven, Hephaestus Kildeggan,” Kettlebent introduced them. “The man who built the revolution.” Hephaestus offered his delicate metal hand. Sev stared at the expertly constructed appendage. Heph chuckled awkwardly, and Sev’s attention was drawn to the man’s face, a blush rising to his cheeks below his pale-green eyes. Sev suddenly realized he was being extremely rude and grabbed the hand, shaking it.

“I know it’s a little unnerving,” Heph offered.

“No sir. Not at all. I’m a bit of a tinkerer meself, and this is”—Sev held up the metal hand—“bloody fantastic,” he finished.

“Necessity, as they say,” Heph rumbled before turning his attention to Kettlebent. “What news, Silas?”

“Things are falling apart,” Kettlebent sighed. “The queen is getting worse, even though Fairgate doesn’t have his journal. We can’t do anything because Midnight still has the damned thing.” Kettlebent shot Sev a meaningful look. “The Steamies are after Seven, and the wedding is still on schedule.”

“Bad news, then,” Heph sighed. He walked to a bookcase and pulled the cork on a crystal decanter. “Brandy?” he asked his guests. Kettlebent nodded and Sev shrugged, then nodded as well. Heph poured three glasses and passed them around. All three men sipped the spicy liquid, allowing the warmth to suffuse them. “You trust this one, then?” Heph’s gaze turned suddenly cold, calculating.

“I do,” Kettlebent answered. Sev was almost offended that the two men spoke as if he weren’t there until he noticed an exchanged look that made him wonder if these two men weren’t more than friends or comrades-in-arms.

“Despite the fact that he’s working for that lunatic, and he beat you to the warlock’s journal?”

“Midnight may be a lunatic, but he has helped us,” Kettlebent returned.

“He’s unpredictable,” Heph said, simply.

“Not untrue,” Kettlebent acknowledged. “Seven is honest, true.” Sev felt heat rising to his cheeks. “If he gives his word, it’s indisputable. He will do as he says.”

“Desperate times, eh?” Heph said and drained his drink. He studied Sev intently, poured himself another drink, and gulped it down. Sev sipped at his own drink. He could see that Hephaestus wanted to say more, but he seemed to be working up the courage. Sev allowed the silence to fill the room. Heph heaved a great sigh. “Where do your allegiances lie?” Heph finally asked.

“My allegiances lie with those who play straight with me,” Sev answered. “Jack Midnight has. Mr. Kettlebent hasn’t.” It wasn’t an accusation; it was the truth. “I’m not sure about you, Mr. Kildeggan.”

“Honesty?” Heph asked. “That’s a novelty. What do you want to know, Mr. Seven?” Sev considered the man’s question. His instinct told him to trust Kildeggan, but he had to be sure. “Whatever you ask, I’ll give you the truth. But you must agree to a fair exchange.”

“I’ve nothin’ t’hide,” Sev stated. He could sense a subtle play of power being acted out.

“We shall see,” Heph replied. “Ask what you will.”

“How did all—” Sev indicated Heph’s prosthetics. “—that happen?” Heph sighed but remained silent. Kettlebent stared daggers at Sev, who felt a cold sweat breach his pores. He shrugged as apologetically as he could manage.

“Heph,” Kettlebent said, softly.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kildeggan. That was out o’line,” Sev apologized.

“No, Seven.” Heph shook his head. “If I wasn’t willing, I shouldn’t have offered.”

“You don’t have to,” Kettlebent said, with a hint of desperation.

“No, Silas. I agreed.” No one spoke after Heph’s words. The partially mechanical man stalked to the edge of the room, his gears grinding. He flexed his metal hand a few times as if he were trying to bolster his courage. “It was many years ago,” Heph started as his mind drifted back to that time. “I was working for a master tinkerer named Carrington.” Heph’s eyes glazed with nostalgia.

H
E
REMEMBERED
picking his way through an alley looking for Disperetz. Carrington needed a specific gyroscope to complete his latest invention, a personal propeller backpack, and the rumor was Sergi Disperetz had one. Hephaestus had been studying with Lucius Carrington for nearly a decade. His mentor had been doing some work for the crown, the Ministry of Invention, and the coin was flowing. It was a prosperous time, and they’d grown comfortable and relaxed.

When Hephaestus found Disperetz, the man was only too willing to sell the item in question. Heph strode whistling back to Carrington’s lab, the brown paper-wrapped bundle beneath his arm; still whole and intact. He turned the last corner and stopped abruptly. Black smoke billowed from the windows of the lab. It wasn’t unheard of to see such things, but Heph felt a ball of ice form in his stomach. He knew something was wrong. He raced the last hundred feet, but before he could enter the building, Steamcoats marched out with Carrington in tow.

“That’s him,” one of the steam-powered soldiers barked. “Get ’im!” Two of the bastards flanked Heph. He felt the blow to the back of his head, felt metal hands grabbing him, and watched the bundle with the gyroscope inside tumble to the street before he lost consciousness.

When he awoke, he saw his friend and teacher bound across from him. Carrington was bloody and bruised. Both of his eyes were swollen shut, and his lip was split horrendously. Heph barely recognized him. “Ah. You’re awake,” someone said just behind Heph. “Just in time,” the voice continued. “You’re employer isn’t being very cooperative. One might even describe him as stubborn.” Heph could tell by the man’s voice that he was an aristocrat, educated, cultured. “Perhaps you’ll be more willing to answer our questions.” The owner of the voice popped into Heph’s field of vision.

“Fairgate?” Heph growled. The man smacked Heph with the butt of a pistol.

“Show some respect,” Fairgate crooned. “It’s Lord Fairgate, boy.” Heph chuckled at being called boy. He was at least two years Fairgate’s senior, but his type always condescended. Fairgate delivered a second blow. “Something funny?” Fairgate asked.

“Obviously not,” Heph said before he spat out blood. “What do you want?”

“Mr. Carrington is working on a number of products for the queen and myself,” Fairgate replied as he paced between the two bound men. “Are you aware of this agreement?” Heph nodded but remained silent. Fairgate continued, “Then you know the Steamcoat improvements are due.” Heph nodded again. “And you also know that Mr. Carrington is woefully behind.”

“And?” Heph finally spoke.

“And the queen isn’t happy. And if the queen isn’t happy, no one is happy.”

“We are doing the best we can,” Carrington interjected. Heph hadn’t even thought the man conscious.

“Well, my friend, your best doesn’t seem to be good enough,” Fairgate growled.

“Go to hell,” Carrington spat. “This isn’t about those contracts, and you know it. You’re upset because I’m not afraid to speak my mind and people are starting to listen. Your little plan is dangerously close to being exposed. I don’t know what you’ve done to our queen, but I am through being your puppet.”

“Then you’ve outlived your usefulness, my friend.” Fairgate sneered and motioned to his Steamcoats. One of the men stepped up and pressed the barrel of his gun to the back of Carrington’s head. Carrington winced, and Heph gasped. “What about you, boy? What’s your master’s life worth? A bit of information?” Fairgate glanced at Heph, who gazed at his mentor. Carrington shook his head once, tears leaking from his swollen eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Heph whispered. He saw Carrington smile and nod approvingly just before Fairgate gave the signal for the man to fire. He heard the muffled shot, and Carrington slumped in the Steamcoats’ grasp. “No!” Heph screamed. He hung his head and sobbed for the loss of his friend and mentor.

“Get rid of him,” Fairgate ordered. The two Steamcoats obeyed. “I need the schematics and building specs on the Mech-o-Limbs.”

Heph’s mouth gaped. What could the queen’s consort want with that? “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Heph lied.

“Shame,” Fairgate mumbled. “I guess you’re useless as well.” Fairgate aimed his pistol at Heph.

“Wait,” Heph barked.

“Something to offer after all?” Fairgate asked. Heph gritted his teeth. He didn’t want to give in, especially in light of Carrington sacrificing his life to deny Fairgate. “Well?” the villain asked impatiently.

“I…,” Heph began. The men sat in brief silence. “I think you’re shit out o’luck,” Heph answered. He smirked, chuckling at his cleverness.

“Shame,” Fairgate sighed. “I didn’t want to have to do this.” He clapped his hands and five men entered from another room. “Not so funny now, is it?” Fairgate sneered. Four of the men grabbed Heph, hauling him to the floor and pinning his arms and legs. The fifth man loomed over Heph, a twisted grin on his fat face.

“What are you going to do?” Heph asked, still straining against his captors.

“Mr. Dimmer is going to motivate you. Isn’t that right, Mr. Dimmer?” It was Fairgate’s turn to chuckle as Dimmer nodded slowly. Dimmer slipped a squat, dirty blade from behind his back. “Don’t forget to heat up the blade, Mr. Dimmer. We don’t want to kill Mr. Kildeggan. We only want to motivate him to share his information.”